How CG Got His Mojo Going
by Suisan
Summary: He's been rattled before, what's different this time? [Missing Scene for 3x20 Burn Rate]


How CG Got His Mojo Going

A Missing Scene for Burn Rate (Episode 3x20)

By Suisan

A/N: Written April 7th & 8th, 2007

Rating: PG14 - There be certain … language … in here. Word Count: 1,934 37KB

_Italics_ denote dreaming. Words denotes phone conversation as heard by the main character.

Special thanks to the following people for beta reading and encouraging this particular plot bunny: MizDenton, Ceci and RuthFL.

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**How CG Got His Mojo Going**

_The noise was deafening, echoing off the walls of what passed for an urban canyon as heat, unbelievable heat, washed over his body scorching the very air he breathed in. He looked over to see if Dwayne Carter had gotten clear of the bombed and burning Humvee only to watch in horror as the scene dissolved around him and Dwayne's face was replaced by David Sinclair's._

Colby Granger bolted upright in bed, gasping for air as his heart raced and thumped painfully in his chest. He wasn't even aware that he'd grabbed for his sidearm, until he went to wipe the sweat off his face and nearly rapped himself with it. Setting the Sig-Sauer on the bedside stand, he pretended not to notice the tremors in his hand and hid it from his view by running the shaking appendage down his chest, slicking more sweat off his body.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress, Colby glanced at the alarm clock sitting next to his Sig. "Damn, zero-four-thirty. Too early to really be up, too late to try to get back to sleep." He nearly panicked at the sound that escaped his throat. It sounded unreal, like something halfway between a sob and a hysterical laugh. Jumping to his feet, he took six long strides into the bathroom and flipped on the light to chase away the darklings gathering around his cot.

He wasn't a fool, Colby knew what was happening to him, but that didn't make the darkness beyond the white tiled bathroom look any better. He was afraid. Afraid to go back to sleep, afraid the dream - the nightmare - would come back, worried to death that he would sink into a Post Traumatic Stress funk. He even knew what triggered that particular nightmare and the panic attack he was slowly recovering from now. The bomb.

Jason Arnow had managed to build a fucking bomb inside a prison, then the fucker blew himself up and Special Agent Granger had the blood and smoke stained suit jacket to prove it. Colby had been that close when the IED went boom, scattering bits and pieces of human debris all over the hall, David Sinclair and himself. Too close. Again. Which is why the old nightmare had come back to haunt him.

His heart was finally slowing down as his body caught up with his brain and the adrenal glands quit pumping their liquid magic into his bloodstream. Walking down the narrow hallway turned closet between the bedroom and kitchen, Colby grabbed a dirty but serviceable tee-shirt from the floor of the tiny laundry room and threw it on over his old Army PT shorts. There was only one way he wanted to deal with the adrenaline dump, even though it was nearly 40 minutes earlier than he usually did this. Grabbing his keys and shoving them into a hip pack, which held a small frame, .38 caliber Smith & Wesson Chief's Special, he headed out to run off the fear and to get his mind back into Federal Agent Mode.

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The run had lasted longer than he thought it would, Colby guessed he had run just over five miles, but now he was sure he was back in control of himself. Taking the time to perform his cool down routine, he looked up to see the sky was starting to turn pearly gray, a sure sign the sun was about to make an appearance. The sea breeze, which had been blowing into the city, had stopped. It was that magical time of morning where the winds seemingly stopped before switching over to the opposite direction. He went to look at his watch to time his pulse and that was when he realized he'd left the timepiece on the bedside stand, next to his gun and the alarm clock.

"Oh, crap. The clock!" Colby raced up the stairs and dashed to his apartment as quietly as he could. His alarm was more than annoying, it was loud enough to wake the dead and he was pretty sure he'd neglected to turn the damn thing off before fleeing the memory of his early morning near-panic attack. Fishing the keys out he managed to open the door to his place just as the alarm-clock-from-hell started it's slow windup to the full-throated claxon it was prone to sounding. Tapping the door, he rushed into the bedroom and shut off the alarm before it could bother his next-door neighbor, a Hospice nurse who usually got in well after one in the morning.

That potential disaster averted, Colby went back to firmly latch his front door, removed the keys from the lock, and threw the bolt before stripping off his hip pouch and soaked tee-shirt. He placed the small bag on the kitchen counter next to the keys, the shirt he tossed back in the laundry room on the way to shower.

Ten minutes later, finally free of the sour stench of fear and physical activity created sweat, Colby sat on his couch contemplating his next move. He'd automatically dressed in what he jokingly called his FBI uniform when he dried off. Sleeveless undershirt, underwear, button down cotton shirt - pale green this morning, and the dark gray, light weight worsted wool slacks he'd gotten back from the dry cleaners the day before the letter bomb case blew up. All he had left to do was pull on his socks and his shoes. It was way too early for him to head into the office, he wasn't ready to review the report he'd written yesterday before coming home and that's what he'd end up doing if he made it into the office before zero-eight-thirty.

The television remote was on the coffee table and he absently reached out to click the 'on' button as he started to pull his socks on. Fox News Channel came to life and Colby lent half an ear to the broadcast as he finished dressing. A fluff piece on the non-effects of global warming in the Cascade Mountain range caught his attention as he slipped the last shoe on his left foot. He didn't even think about it, he just reached out, picked up the cordless phone and dialed the number from memory.

Hello?

"Hey, Mom. I didn't wake you, did I?"

No, CeeJay, I've been up for a while. The back's acting up again. Everything okay?

Colby smiled, he never could get anything past his mother. "Not really, but…"

You want to talk to your dad, right?

"Is the Chief already knocking about?"

And greasing up my nice clean kitchen. Just a second, honey. He listened and heard his mother yell for GiGi Granger, even though she had clearly covered the phone's mouthpiece. He'll pick up in a minute.

"Thanks, Mom. Hope the back's better soon." Colby knew his mother's arthritis was manageable, barely, but it was a sore spot with the woman who, after home schooling all four of her sons, had gone back to teaching full time in the public high school in Cascade, Idaho only to have to retire medically after 15 years.

No worries, CeeJay. Doc Lynde put me on some _real _good drugs this time. Oh, here's your father, love ya, kid!

"Love ya too, Mom."

CeeJay … what's up?

Colby smiled at the mental image of his father. "What makes you think something's up?"

I dunno … it's just past six in the morning and you're on the phone wanting to talk to the old man? Not to mention I'm walking out onto the enclosed porch so Mom doesn't hear us. Colby heard the door to the solarium squeak it's springs then close with a wooden thud. Now, what's under your skin this morning, Colby James?

His father's use of his full Christian name was the key to unlock the bottled up emotions and Colby told his father everything. The letter bomb investigation, Arnow's blowing himself to kingdom come and nearly taking GiGi Granger's youngest son and his son's partner with him … and then he told his father about the nightmare.

Gareth Granger didn't have a long career in Idaho Law Enforcement because he was a soft man. Compassionate, yes. Soft? Not GiGi Granger. He'd served his country during Vietnam by fighting in the highlands, and then he came home, went to college, got his degree in Criminal Studies and then became a beat cop in Boise. He and his wife, Catherine, moved to Cascade, Idaho 22 years ago when he became Police Chief and before his eldest boy graduated High School. He had also taught all four of his sons to never hold back when talking to family, but never to show weakness in front of strangers. Which is why he knew his youngest just needed to talk about the nightmare that had wakened him with limited interruptions from him. When Colby stopped talking for over 60 seconds, Dad spoke up once more.

Sounds to me like you need a nice vacation in the mountains again, Colby James. You got any time coming?

"Yes, sir. In a couple of weeks I should be able to get back home … how's the fishing?"

Spectacular, especially up near the dam. Call before you head this way and I'll make sure to drop into Al Pitt's shop and pick you up a resident's fishing license.

Colby glanced at his watch, zero-six-fifty. "I'll do that, Dad. I've got to head into work so we can put this sick sonuvabitch in irons. Thanks for letting me bend your ear before you went into the station."

Son, that's what I'm here for, besides, I'm cheaper than any shrink and listen better. You keep your head down, okay?

"I'll do that, Dad. You do the same. Love ya."

Love ya too, CeeJay.

Colby broke the connection, stood up and walked into the bedroom he'd unconsciously been avoiding since waking up. Grabbing his Sig-Sauer from the nightstand, he strapped the comforting weight in its holster on his hip, grabbed his wallet and headed out the door. He was going to find the perp behind Arnow's bomb-assisted suicide and he was going to enjoy slapping the cuffs on the asshole.

END

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: Okay, I realize not everyone speaks "Military (or European) Time" and I used it in this story. Fast lesson: between Midnight and Ten AM, everything has a "zero" in front of it. Ten, Eleven and Noon are referred to as "Ten-Hundred, Eleven-Hundred and Twelve-Hundred respectively. Anything from One PM to Midnight is easy as … well, as easy as adding or subtracting twelve. It's 2:48 PM. Add 12 to 2 and you get 14, right? So 2:48 PM becomes 1448hrs. 10:07 PM? Easy-peasy! That's 2207hrs. Okay, you see a time of 2018hrs. Take the 20 from that and subtract 12. Eight. So it's obviously 8:18 PM. And you thought Military or European Time was hard to understand … just be thankful I didn't divide the hours into one hundred minutes! REG 

Post Script: To the skeptics … especially those who know my work in The Sentinel fandom … there really is a Cascade, Idaho and it's just north of Boise. Suis

April 7th & 8th, 2007 Saturday & Sunday Finished 0327hrs


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